Interrogation Wrap-Up
by KathyG
Summary: In this gap-filler to LadyShelley's "The Past is a Foreign Country," which can be found here on Fanfiction and on Archives of Our Own, Lestrade has some things to say to John and Sherlock when he wraps up his questioning of John regarding his nemesis, Stephen Markham. One-shot. Thank you, LadyShelley, for beta-reading my story!


**Interrogation Wrap-Up**

 **By KathyG**

 **In this gap-filler to LadyShelley's "The Past is a Foreign Country," which can be found on Fanfiction and on Archives of Our Own, Lestrade has some things to say to John and Sherlock when he wraps up his questioning of John regarding his nemesis, Stephen Markham. Thank you, LadyShelley, for beta-reading my story!**

 **Disclaimer** **: Sherlock, John, and Lestrade are not my creations, but those of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and of the BBC's Moffat-Gattiss team, and the plot of the story this gap-filler fills was not my idea, but that of LadyShelley.**

John slumped in his dark-coloured cushioned armchair, suppressing yet another urge to groan. He was too exhausted to even attempt to maintain a straight military posture anymore. He and Sherlock had been sitting in Lestrade's office for hours now, answering every question the D.I. could think to ask John about ex-major Stephen Markham. John's ribs throbbed nonstop from the vicious kick in the chest Markham had given him during the fight earlier; it was all he could do to refrain from wincing and groaning.

 _At least, they're not broken—just bruised,_ John thought, as he reached up to hold his chest with his right hand. Next to him, Sherlock, who was making an obvious effort to continue sitting up straight, kept his thumbs pressed into the cushions surrounding the rests of the armchair that he was reclining in, and drummed his fingers on their surfaces. Lestrade toyed with a ballpoint pen as he looked at the retired army doctor. The radiator spanning the window-covered wall to John and Sherlock's right emitted a soft hum as it kept the office warm.

"John?" Lestrade peered intently at the retired army doctor's wan face.

"I'm sorry—what?" Blinking, John looked up at him.

"I asked you to tell me the last thing Markham said, just before you started fighting him under the bridge." Resting his elbows on the light-brown desk, Lestrade held the ends of the pen with both hands.

"Oh." Dropping his hand on the armrest, John uncomfortably shifted his position, biting back a groan as his ribs throbbed. "The very last thing he said was…uh, was…" He paused, thinking, trying to remember. "Oh! He—he said that it was all because of me that he, who had had a long and respected career, had been stripped of rank and of everything."

He shook his head. "And that was the last thing he said before he turned around to see who was coming. I was too focused on keeping him occupied and under the bridge— _and_ on trying to get the syringe away from him—to pay any attention to who or what was behind me, until I heard footsteps that told me it was too late to stop whoever it was from running right into us. Yours and Sherlock's footsteps, as it turned out." John smiled wryly, and Lestrade nodded agreement. "It was in that moment that Markham turned to see who it was. Immediately after he turned away from me, I tackled him, knocking him to the ground. As soon as that happened, the syringe flew out of his hand, and he went berserk." John paused. "You and Sherlock saw the rest."

"Yes." Laying the pen down, Lestrade leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the surface of his desk. With a heavy sigh, John scrubbed a hand through his sandy-brown hair with one hand and then rested his chin in that hand, while once again guarding his bruised side with the other. He glanced up at the window spanning the wall behind the detective-inspector's desk, and then down at the navy-blue carpet covering the entire floor, while listening to the radiator's soft, soothing hum. Looking intently at John, Sherlock turned to glare at the detective inspector.

"Lestrade, can't you see John is exhausted?" he demanded. "Can't you see that he's slumped in his chair, and the way he's guarding his chest? Not only is he tired, but it's clear that some of his ribs are aching, and if you keep him sitting here much longer, answering more questions, at best, he's going to fall asleep in his chair."

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, I can see that, Sherlock. Well, you've both explained everything I need to know—things I _should_ have been told much earlier." He gave Sherlock a stern look. "In a minute, I will let you go, but first, I have some things to say to both of you. Especially you, Sherlock."

John grimaced. It was evident he and Sherlock were in for a reprimand. Shaking his head violently to clear the fuzziness out of it, he rubbed his eyes and dug the toes of his shoes into the carpet's soft, shallow tufts. Bending forward, once again resting his elbows on his desk, and clasping his hands together, Lestrade looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you should have most definitely told me everything that John had explained to you, as soon as you had that information. I understand your decision to wait until you were back at the flat before asking him, but as soon as he had finished telling you, you should have been on the phone, telling me. Even if he didn't want you to, you still should have told me. And letting him walk off without a question, when you _knew_ his life was in danger, was as stupid a move as anything I could have heard of!" He wagged an index finger at the consulting detective for emphasis. As Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, in detail, how John had not been alone, Lestrade ignored him and turned to John.

"And John," Lestrade continued, "I completely understand your desire to protect Sherlock. But if there _had_ been any danger of Markham coming after him, keeping Sherlock in the dark would _not_ have kept him safe. You should have told him about Markham as soon as you knew, yourself. And you should have told me."

John sighed. "Yes, Lestrade."

"If something like this ever happens again, John, tell Sherlock and myself. _Don't_ try to handle it on your own."

A knock on the door interrupted their talk. "Come in," Lestrade called. The light-brown door swung open, and the white-coated lab technician who had been assigned to examine the ingredients in the hypodermic syringe entered Lestrade's office. Markham's fingerprints had already been found on it, thus strengthening the Yard's already-solid case against him.

"My team and I have examined the contents of the syringe very thoroughly," the technician said. "It's a mixture of morphine and several different kinds of anaesthetics, all of which are in lethal amounts. Had Stephen Markham succeeded in injecting Dr. Watson with such a mixture, the doctor would have been dead in less than a minute."

John took a deep breath as a chill ran down his spine at the thought of what his fate could have been. Sherlock laid his hand on his flatmate's lower arm, gently squeezing it. Lestrade shook his head. "Thank you," he told the technician, who nodded and left; the door clicked shut behind him. Turning to John, he added, "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you are a very lucky man, John. And so is your former army nurse, Bill Murray."

John nodded agreement. "We certainly are."

Leaning back again and clasping his hands together as he rested his elbows on his desk for the umpteenth time, Lestrade looked from the now-slumped consulting detective to the equally-slumped doctor, and then sighed. "John's not the only one who's exhausted, Sherlock. You're not far from that state yourself." He rose to his feet; John winced, suppressing yet another groan, as he and Sherlock followed suit. "Neither of you have the strength nor the energy left to wait on the sidewalk for a taxi, so I'll drive you home myself." Lestrade removed his jacket from the coat stand near the door and shrugged it on. "You've probably had nothing to eat since breakfast, have you, John?"

Grimacing, John shook his head. He looked at his flatmate. "Knowing Sherlock, neither has he."

Lestrade paused one last time, shifting his gaze from Sherlock to John. "Don't forget what I said, either of you. Especially you, John." He looked intently into the former army doctor's eyes. "All right?"

John sighed again. "All right. If someone comes after me again, I'll tell you both." He looked from Lestrade to Sherlock as he spoke.

"Good." Lestrade patted his shoulder. "With that said, I hope there will be no repeat of this." Smiling ruefully, John nodded agreement. "You'd better get some ice on those ribs when you get home, John. Are you sure you don't need to go to an A&E?"

John shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'm fine." Shrugging, Lestrade exchanged a glance with Sherlock, who gave him a knowing look, and then led the way down the hall and then down the stairs toward the underground parking garage.


End file.
